


Bubbly Orange

by Lover_of_all_things_Pat



Series: Bubbly Orange [Verse] [1]
Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: AEW Spoilers, Aftermath, Best Friends, Breaking all the rules, Champagne, Chris and Cassidy need to bone, Chuck and Trent are super responsible bros, Dick Pics, Fruitcake, HAGER AND GUEVARA SITTING IN A TREE, Hager redeems himself, High Stakes, Inner Circle wants this ship, It's happening, JERICHO IS PAPA BEAR, Jake Hager Should Not Use Emojis, Jericho takes jokes too far, Jurrasic Express, M/M, Men Bad at Feelings, Mild Angst, Mind the Tags, Mr Miyagi referenced, Multi, Not Beta Read, Oral, Potential drowning, Rating may go up, Sammy's cards, Sammy's cat benji, Slash pairing, Sorry Not Sorry, The Inner Circle - Freeform, Vitamin deficiencies are sad here, a little bit of the bubbly, age and size difference, all out, blow job mimicry, demo god, don't eat that, eggplant emojis, eventual man-love, gay wrestlers, inner conflict, le champion, mimosa mayhem, mindful Jake Hager, repressed bicuriosity, slowish burn, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lover_of_all_things_Pat/pseuds/Lover_of_all_things_Pat
Summary: Jericho was going to dump a little champagne on Orange Cassidy in the ring. Whatever. But things go too far...
Relationships: Chris Jericho/Orange Cassidy, Jake Hager/Sammy Guevara, Jericho & Orange Cassidy
Series: Bubbly Orange [Verse] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927756
Comments: 52
Kudos: 52





	1. A Lotta Bit of the Bubbly

Orange Cassidy stood there with his arm raised and his thumb half-cocked. It's a more solid thumbs-up than he's given in a long time. He's accepted the Mimosa Mayhem proposition, and how could he not? It was in the script, or whatever.

What wasn't necessarily scripted- though Jericho had warned him ahead of time- was the champagne splash. A shake, a pop, and a little bit of the bubbly.

Chuck and Trent stood behind Orange for support. It's almost funny how the Best Friends seemed to be reliable best friends when push came to shove.

But Orange and Chuck and Trent were quickly outnumbered when the Inner Circle encroached like an insect infestation and the fight that broke out came to an abrupt end with Best Friends taken out and Orange being grabbed and held upside-down by Ortiz, Hager, and Guevara. Icing on the cake was both Jericho and Santana hitting Orange with the eruption of champagne...

Cold, wet, bubbly. A fountain, a waterfall. And it just kept coming.

Orange Cassidy isn't a wuss. He can take a beating, and he doesn't care enough to let a few bruises and some wet clothes bother him. But his nonchalant persona is not some impenetrable shield. 

Just like he doesn't like the chop, he doesn't like not being able to _breathe_. 

Sammy's hand hinged itself on his throat, fingers wrapping like little snakes, constricting as Orange's blood ran from foot to head, face turning red and almost purpling like a bruise. 

Mouth wide to draw in air that wouldn't come, champagne rained and flooded and choked. It burned, sputtered from his nose and mouth and he failed in an honest try-hard attempt to break free and breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

He tried, spitting and gasping and swallowing.

And the bubbly continued to flow in thick spraying arcs.

Colder than expected, entirely too wet, and so much more than just a splash.

When Orange Cassidy was dropped, all he could focus on was drawing in wet heaving breaths, air wheezing and gurgling between his lungs and mouth. 

He felt dizzy, sick, his entire body heavy like lead.

 _It's a show_ , Orange reminded himself while the crowd's deafening roars begin to breach the haze that had settled over him. 

_It's a show_ , he reiterated in his head as he moved to sit on his knees, head bowed and champagne dripping from his nose and chin. 

_It's a show_ , he tried again, when the mere act of swallowing was painful and sore.

He stopped trying to convince himself when Jake Hager's hand cupped the side of his head and shoved with enough force to lay him out in the ring.

Orange's vision swam and blurred and darkened.

He didn't get back up.


	2. Kip-Up

Jericho laughed and spouted his speech while champagne doused the smaller man. The soaking and spraying stopped when it appeared that Orange Cassidy _might_ -

No, this was a ploy, entertainment for the fans.

Orange Cassidy was just a good actor- _except he's NOT a good actor; too lazy for real effort._

-which could only mean...

Jericho theatrically tossed his nearly empty bottle aside and puffed out his chest, showing off all the glory of Le Champion. He laughed and he smiled and he gave a practiced look to the camera as it zoomed in.

But his chest felt tight and his heart rattled around his ribcage because he didn't think Orange Cassidy was faking or exaggerating his lack of air. He quietly told the Inner Circle "That's enough..." and they unceremoniously dropped the drenched wrestler. 

The relief was too strong to hide when Jericho saw Orange Cassidy cough and gag and slowly move to a sitting position. A twinge of guilt burrowed through his core but he ignored it in favor of keeping up the act for the fans.

And then Hager happened, with a hard clap to the side of Orange's head, the sloth-like wrestler hit the mat like he'd truly been freshly squeezed. 

And when he didn't get up...

Jericho looked around for the ref, for the medical team, for the Best Friends- _anyone_ \- but help was not forthcoming.

The Inner Circle gradually lost their mirth and the audience fell quiet, blanketing the arena in an eerie silence.

Hesitantly, cautiously, carefully, Jericho crouched down and double-tapped Orange Cassidy's cheek. It was cold and wet from champagne and air, and it mixed with what may have been sweat or tears.

Jericho looked him over carefully, visibly cringing when he noticed the warm wetness that was spreading on the young man's pants.

Orange had been in such distress that his body betrayed him and he pissed himself. And now he wasn't breathing, was possibly dead. 

All for the show. A bad joke.

A Sammy-sized hand-shaped bruise was prominently forming on Orange's neck, and Jericho felt disgust. And with what Hager did...

Jericho dropped solidly to his knees, his own pants getting soaked in the process as he knelt over Orange's prone form.

"Hey, man, get up. It's not funny. Kip-up and get your hands in your damn pockets already..."

When no answer came, Le Champion dropped his hands hard onto Orange Cassidy's chest and began a series of compressions. "Get a medic!" he shouted, voice pitched high with uncharacteristic panic.

"Shit," Sammy pipped, stumbling to the ropes and shouting for someone to help.

Hager stepped away and rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably. He hadn't meant to be so rough.

Santana and Ortiz had moved to a corner post to convene, whispering to one another, asking if the script had been given last minute changes that they'd missed.

A medical team erupted on the scene just in time for Jericho to pinch Cassidy's nose, connect their mouths and expel a huge lungful of air.

It seemed to do the trick as Orange convulsed minutely, turned his head and vomited saliva-thickened bubbly. He lay there heaving and gasping until his respiration settled into something calm and normal.

"You okay?" Jericho asked as a medic tried to move him away from the other wrestler.

Slowly, Orange lifted an arm and his thumb gave the barest twitch. A thumbs-up. Then his hand turned and he gestured vaguely for the Demo God to come closer. When Jericho complied and leaned in, Orange's lips twisted into a smirk. "Your mouth had a party with my mouth... Everyone saw."

Before Jericho could respond properly, the medical team became more insistent and pushed him out of the way so they could take care of Orange Cassidy.


	3. You Good?

Orange Cassidy had been cleared by the medics, and while he intended on going with Best Friends to a hotel for some R&R, a very insistent Chris Jericho squashed the initial plans and all but kidnapped the smaller man, assertively declaring: "The Inner Circle is at fault here, let me make amends." 

Orange had waved off his fretful buddies and gone with Jericho, winding up in an overly posh condo with Le Champion keeping a near-constant eye on him.

...four days later, and Orange can't drag his feet along the floor and get to the bathroom for a morning piss without Jericho tagging along. 

"I'm fine," Cassidy claims on a deep exhale. "You can go-"

"You almost died-"

"Whatever."

Jericho slammed the bathroom door, trapping himself and Orange Cassidy inside. "It's not _Whatever_. You don't go in the ring and just let that shit happen! You should have-"

Orange has this way about him: the subtle shift, the cock of the hip as he zips his pants, and the smooth roll of his head as he makes sunglasses-to-eye contact with the larger wrestler. "It's _fine_."

Jericho sighs, his breath as big and sapping as any flimflam. He wants to believe things are fine. After all, Orange Cassidy's health seems on par with normal. Jake Hager sent a text: _'Is he ok? Tell Fruitcake I'm sorry.'_ Santana and Ortiz had sent a fruit basket comprised of oranges and nectarines. Guevara posted a video of himself confessing that mistakes were made but that's just how the biz is sometimes; he finished up by taking a swig of OJ and leaning into the camera, sticking out his pulp-strewn tongue in true Sammy-fashion.

Orange Cassidy slipped right by Jericho and out the door, moving slow and purposeful, his pace creeping just above that of badly animated lava. He coasted his way to the kitchen and raided the fridge for some leftover Chinese takeout. He sat on a barstool at the counter to eat, ignoring the eyes of Jericho that watched him from a conspicuous distance.

Jericho couldn't help feeling responsible for what went down less than a week ago. He hadn't covered all the details with the Inner Circle and it became a train wreck. So, yeah, of course he was going to oversee Cassidy's recovery. It was the least he could do- _except maybe it wasn't the LEAST he could do._

"Listen," Jericho said, bold and loud like everything else he did. He approached the other wrestler with his mind set and face steeled in determination. "About the Mimosa Mayhem Match... you can turn it down. Or I can... back out. I don't want there to be any obliga-" his words were cut off by a low grunt.

Orange interrupted and regarded the other man. "I accepted, or whatever. Not backing out."

Jericho opened his mouth for a rebuttal but held back when his eyes roamed and caught the fading bruises along the pale stretch of throat. 

Things weren't okay. Even if Orange's health wasn't in jeopardy the awkward tension between them was enough to make matters complicated. He wasn't sure how to make it go away. If it were anyone else, it wouldn't matter; they'd put everything aside and be professional in the ring or start a fight outside the ring just to get it out of their systems. But with Orange Cassidy? It was different.

The man was younger, smaller. Not weak by any means, but perhaps delicate in ways Jericho decidedly was not.

Lost in his thoughts the Demo God had missed the leisurely way Orange Cassidy dripped from the stool and got to his feet. But he did not miss the high raise of the other wrestler's hands and the effortless glide as they transitioned into denim pockets. 

"What are you playing at?" The words left Jericho's mouth, though he could already see where this was heading.

True to form, a lethargic little kick tapped against Jericho's shin, then the other. Orange shuffled back, spun, and finished with a slightly more enthusiastic kick.

"Are you taunting me with your sissy kicks?" Jericho hated the little stunt, but it was just ridiculous enough - so entirely _Orange-_ that he had to chuckle. "We are not doing this in the kitchen." He turned to walk away but stopped when he felt a lazy slap to his back. "You sure you're up for this?" he tested, resolving to humor the smaller wrestler.

Orange Cassidy responded in turn by removing his sunglasses, folding and setting then on the counter. "Stop treating me like a breakable little bitch." He threw his arm out and landed a chop that was mostly ineffective against Jericho's shirt.

Just like that, the tension began to ebb away and the men shoved, grappled, punched and kicked at each other, none of the moves overly coordinated or hurtful. It was a playful trade until Orange failed on the first attempt to pick the larger man up and Jericho retaliated by dropping him with a suplex. 

When Orange hit the floor, Jericho stood over him, breath bated. "You good?" he had to ask.

Orange laid out like a starfish, staring up at the Demo God. "Floor is fuckin' hard," he said simply; the smile that came was genuine.


	4. Laundry Dilemma

Jericho's condo is a luxury of convenience. It's a huge step above a hotel even if it lacks catering. It's comfortable. And if Chris wants to sit around in a robe when he knows he should be hitting the home-gym, then dammit if he isn't going to enjoy the peace.

That bliss, however, is short-lived when his eyes land on the coffee table and he sees a stack of mail. Bills, a little glossy ad, a lewd magazine-

_And these things are not stamped with the name Jericho as the recipient._

Orange Cassidy was getting his _mail_ sent to Jericho's condo. It's weird It's personal. It's hard to fully comprehend.

It is equally hard to process that, an hour ago, the tag team known as Best Friends had shown up, knocked and rang the doorbell a few times too many, and then let themselves in before Chris could even get to the door. 

In a completely non work-related matter, Chuck T and Trent had invaded his home to presumably check up on their friend, and with them came a suitcase and a duffle bag and some odds and ends- all belongings that Orange Cassidy had requested via text.

Which could only mean that this arrangement wasn't one-and-done. It wasn't coming to a steadfast end with Jericho saying: _"See you in the ring. Don't die, it's bad publicity."_

The maid comes in to do a quick run of daily chores, but she arrives early and leaves before Chris is even out of bed; so, during the day, when he has time, Chris takes care of his own chores. Nothing too strenuous, but he can stick a couple plates and cups in the dishwasher, and he can fold his laundry when the dryer buzzes to signal the end of the drying cycle. 

Most people don't even know Chris can fold his own laundry... and why would they? When fans are only concerned with his in-ring persona, how tall he is, how much he can lift, how much money he makes- when do they find time to consider that the man knows which shirts are best folded versus which ones need to be put on a hanger? 

Yeah, Jericho can mate his own damn socks. It's a humbling task that he likes to do by himself. 

Which only makes it more weird when his usual laundry now includes acid-washed jeans with the knees ripped out.

It's an entirely too honest and stressful dilemma when Jericho touches the other man's underwear. He doesn't fold them. It's weird and too personal. It isn't at all like helping to clean up Hager's bleeding knuckles when he stress-punched a wall, or helping Sammy get home when the kid got a little too enthusiastic at a party. No, this is different, because it's Orange-fucking-Cassidy and his cheap cotton poly-blend underwear.

It's a relief when the Inner Circle pop in, arriving together unannounced and clambering around Jericho like he's their Papa Bear. 

It's good to see them. It feels... normal. 

He supposes they want to discuss what's coming later in the week, maybe shoot a promo video or throw out some tweets to the fans. He offers them a drink- because he knows how to be a damn good host.

But the normality of it all comes crashing down when Sammy spots the mail and his face twists into a grimace. "He's still here? _Wait._ His _mail_ is here?"

It means something, right? You don't stay somewhere for a couple days and just decide to have your mail forwarded. 

"I like the casual look," Ortiz says, trying to change the subject.

Jericho scoffs. His robe costs more than some people spend on their first car. He can be comfortable in his own home. So, yeah, casual robe. And slippers too, because he is not an animal.

"What's it like, living with him?" It's Hager who asks, and Chris doesn't know how to answer, so he doesn't. 

The men of the Inner Circle get a glimpse of life with Orange when in walks Chuck T, cradling Cassidy and carrying the blonde to the door.

"He wants some fresh air," Chuck says offhandedly. As they head out and shut the door behind them, the Inner Circle is left in a pool of cumbersome tension.

"Le Champion has himself a pet Orange," Santana's quip has Guevara slapping a hand over his own mouth to stifle a laugh that comes on too strong. Fueled by Sammy's amusement, Santana adds, "Feed him, walk him, rub his belly-"

Ortiz cracks a grin, he can't help it.

Hager looks puzzled, then strangely serious. "Does he... freshen up your bubbly?"

Jericho gets it. They're having fun. Had the shoe been on the other foot and one of them stuck with a human-shaped citrus lump, he'd tease them even harder. 

It is a little funny.

Except, maybe it isn't? 

Because...

"He's not that bad," Chris confesses. And he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing dialogue at 4am. Probably not as funny as I think it is, but it's been fun!


	5. Vitamin C

If there's one thing Chris Jericho and Orange Cassidy could agree on, it's that fans kept them going. Without fans, no wrestling, no AEW, no titles or matches or ring personas... Fan appreciation was important, which is what gets Orange out of bed, showered, dressed, and on his way to a lowkey venue where he can mingle with the fans, sign a few autographs, and pose for some photos. Sometimes there's even a prearranged match that comes unscripted, which is nice because he can work on simply making it fun. 

It's a rewarding experience, and it's mostly enjoyable, but today... Orange isn't feeling 100%. From the moment he rolls out of bed, he acknowledges the stiff and aching joints, the pounding in his head, and the fatigue that gnaws at him like he hadn't slept in days. When he walks hunched over with his feet dragging, it's because any real effort takes a brutal toll.

He decides he doesn't feel up to a match before he gets there, but upon arrival he is faced with resolution, obligation, determination and dread.

He'll do it, for the fans.

And he does, even when his body overheats too easily and sweat makes his clothes stick to his skin. Pulling his shirt off mid-match is like a baptism as air hits his sweat soaked skin. He's dizzy and his face is fever-flushed as he takes an opponent down with an arm-drag. 

The crowd is loud and the echoing sounds are tinny.

Orange Cassidy loses his footing and lands improperly on a dive from the ropes, the sting is harsh and he's momentarily stunned as his opponent goes at him with some pulled punches and stunted kicks before moving in for a pin.

Orange is supposed to kick out and drag the match out for another five to eight minutes.

The ref throws his hand down to count and the crowd shouts aloud: _ONE! TWO!-_

He's supposed to kick out, roll away, kip-up and strike with some intent and humor. Because it's a good show and Orange likes bringing funny into an otherwise serious sport.

He takes a breath and prepares to kick out right before the third count. The weight and position of the pin should be slight enough for him to get out... but he can't.

His body quits on him and the third count comes: _THREE!_

There's an eruption of boos and cheers and his opponent leans in to ask: "What happened?" Worse than the need for inquiry, Orange continued to lay on the mat even when the other wrestler got up and offered a hand to assist. 

The audience laughs and someone shouts that Orange Cassidy is too lazy to get up. Another yells that he fell asleep.

Orange Cassidy still has his faithful sunglasses, so no one can see his eyes glassy and half-lidded.

If he pretends it's a ploy, they won't worry that he couldn't get up if he wanted to.

So he just lays in the middle of the ring, breathing slow and deep. He lets his eyes close and-

-he wakes up to a bright light and an on-call doctor asking how long he's been sick.

Orange doesn't answer. He just hopes he didn't let the fans down. 

The sweat on his body chilled and now he's cold. He wants to go home.

And isn't that something, that Jericho's condo has become home? That Orange likes leaning against the counter sipping his morning juice and giving a vague greeting to the larger man when he comes in, hair wet and stringy from a shower or a dip in the pool...

Maybe it's the fever, but the thought gives Cassidy a case of the warm and fuzzies.

When the doctor starts babbling about vitamin C deficiencies, the ill wrestler almost laughs. Almost. Instead his mouth twitches with the barest hint of a smile.

The doc prescribes medication and gives him something to reduce the fever. 

Orange swallows the pills down without much thought.

He blames the pills and fever for the act of texting Jericho for a ride home. He blames delirium for the text including: _Come get me, baybee._


	6. Transporter

Waking up to a seemingly random text from an unexpected source isn't new for Chris. It happens from time to time with varying levels of urgency. It could be a childish prank but it could also be an emergency. He texts and then calls for details but receives no answer, which is how he ends up recruiting Hager to accompany him to some no-name clinic.

There is a nurse waiting outside beside a wheelchair, in which sits a familiar sunglassed blonde.

Orange Cassidy is almost comedic with redundancy as he sips from a child-sized juice carton, his lap holding three empty ones already.

The nurse is being too sweet on the presumed patient, her hand rubbing at the back of his neck and touching his shoulder and giving his arm a squeeze. It's an uncomfortable display of practical molestation that has Jericho's stomach clenching.

Chris gets out of the car and approaches with an air of irritation "What happened?" His voice is sharp and his face is all hard lines as he speaks.

Orange's shoulder dips- or perhaps the other had raised almost imperceptibly- in what is sure to be a lazy shrug. "Ran outta juice." There's a little chuff at the end that might be a laugh.

"Vitamin deficiencies are nothing to trifle with," the nurse supplies. She looks at Jericho expectantly. "Are you picking him up?"

"Something like that," Jericho replies. He doesn't have time for small talk or shenanigans. He's pretty sure there's a meeting he needs to be at later and he'd like to prepare beforehand. He assesses Orange, noting the palor of his skin, the dry chapped lips, and the lethargy that appears to weigh him down like a stone. Chris waits for the smaller man to get up from the wheelchair and into the car...

Cassidy makes no move to do so. Instead, he lifts his arms... waiting to be picked up.

Jericho has seen Orange Cassidy carried around numerous times, usually by Chuck T. It has always been ridiculous and admittedly humorous, but now? Now it wasn't so funny. 

It was like watching an ASPCA commercial.

Was he really expected to carry the other man like a small child?

Having waited long enough for the assist, his askance evident enough, Cassidy lowered his hands to the arm grips of the chair and began to push himself up, the strain enough to make his veins bulge and arms tremble with effort.

There's a soft hiss of " _Fuck_ ," as all the juice cartons tumble to the ground and Orange drops back into the chair, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and dampening his hair.

The nurse smoothes Orange's hair back and coos to him, and the heavy breaths he draws in ring of frustration.

Jericho kinda wants to help...

But it's Hager who gets out of the car and strides over. "Come on, Fruitcake, let's get you home." He scoops the smaller wrestler up with minimal effort, and Cassidy slips an arm around Jake, his whole body resting heavy and snug against the larger frame. Hager helps Orange into the backseat and buckles him in, then gets in the driver's side while Jericho takes passenger.

Nobody says a word during the drive.

They don't question Orange about being sick or what he'd been doing that day. No one accuses Jericho for not helping Orange out of the wheelchair. And no one dares comment on the wet stains on Hager's shirt where possible tears may have been freshly squeezed and leaked out from under a set of polarized lenses.


	7. Stakes

The air might as well have been pulp-thickened with how much tension filled the livingroom of Chris and Cassidy's apparent shared condo.

Orange sat in a loveseat, legs spread wide and arms stretched across the back. He looked comfortable, the epitome of relaxed, and under any other circumstance Jericho would _believe_ he was.

But now was a time for words and neither man was certain how this conversation would go. 

"How long has this been an issue?" Jericho opted for a direct approach and was met with Orange dropping his head back in exasperation. "I'm serious," Jericho goaded. "Your health is at risk, and-" he cuts himself off there, half expecting the other man to do something worthy of interrupting.

What he doesn't expect- what actually happens-

Orange sat up a little straighter, removed his sunglasses, folded and clipped them to the neck of his shirt, and rested his hands in his lap. Molasses-umber eyes meeting Jericho's head-on, he spoke calmly but firmly. "People get sick every day. Should that stop them from living?"

Not caring for reason, Jericho threw his arms out in a grand gesture. "Yes! If it means prolonging their lives, then they can cut back on a little fun."

Orange quirked an eyebrow and it was one of the more pronounced expressions the other man had seen. "You're _that guy_ , huh?" He sounded disappointed. When Jericho appeared dumbfounded, he explained: "You're the one guy who tells the terminally ill child that amusement parks are for healthy children and that a sick kid should be stuffed in a bubble."

Jericho visibly balked, taken aback by the harsh accusation.

Orange Cassidy slid forward and got to his feet. He looked aroud the condo, clean and pristine and _comfortable._ "I'm not staying in some bubble. I earned my place in the ring."

"Who knows?" Jericho's voice was uncharacteristically quiet but retained his usual level of authority. "Who all knows you're sick?"

Orange swallowed hard but his eyes remained steely. "Counting you, Hager, me, Best Friends, and a few doctors... That's it. And it needs to stay that way."

Realization fully dawned then.

Orange Cassidy wouldn't be medically cleared to wrestle if word got out.

For a man of few words, that was quite a confession.

It left Jericho with a lot to think about, but his mouth ran without prior consent. "The Mimosa Mayhem Match. Show me then; show me then and there that you are fit to wrestle. If you can't cut it, you're done."

Bereaved of any verbal supplement, Orange Cassidy slipped his hands into his pockets and headed for the door. His heart was in his throat and he was pretty sure his stomach dropped down by his feet. He'd made a mistake. He trusted _Jericho_ , of all people, with his wellbeing and his career, and now everything he'd worked so hard for could come crashing down after just one match. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be mostly fillers until the Mimosa Mayhem airs.  
> Til then, support and feedback helps. This is my first ever wrestling fic, and I'm pumped about it. I want to gradually include other wrestlers, so hopefully I get to that! But I don't want to detract from the end game being some Bubbly Orange. Suggestions for story elements are appreciated and will be taken into consideration.
> 
> Remember to drink your OJ!


	8. Protection Pact

Jericho had his meeting to attend regarding match-ups, stunt coordination, ticket sales and the like, and Jake Hager was off running his own errands, which began with a group chat including the Inner Circle sans Le Champion.

Hager's initial message was a stray mix of cryptic and controversial, and it consisted entirely of emojis.

Hager: 🍊🎂🚑

Guevara: _orange cake emergency?_

Ortiz: _emergency surprise party for orange cassidy?_

Santana: _fruitcake made you sick?_

Hager: _Fruitcake IS Sick._

Ortiz: _orange cassidy has the flu?_

Santana: _nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach..._

Guevara: _squirting juice. gross, man!_

Hager: _Fruitcake is sick like St. Jude's kids._

Ortiz: _cancer?!_

Santana: _tumors?_

Hager: _Gym. Come. Now._

Guevara: _Yes, sir_. 😜

...

Which is how the group found themselves co-occupying a designated gym with the Jurrasic Express.

Jungle Boy and Marko were spotting Luchasaurus as the big guy benched an impressive weight.

Guevara raised a hand in greeting. He had no beef with the team and Marko was something of a backstage buddy. The two young stars had an almost shameful number of selfies taken together.

Not wanting to include 'Saurus and his team in their private matters, Hager waved the Inner Circle over to the equipment on the other side of the gym. He stepped up on a treadmill and the others followed suit, assuming their positions on neighboring machines, excluding young Guevara who instead took off his shirt to stretch and flex and admire himself in a mirror because vanity takes practice.

"What's going on, Jake?" Santana asked, his tone low and voice hushed.

Ortiz followed up with: "What happened to Chris's pet?"

Hager took a deep breath through his nose and adjusted the speed and incline on the treadmill. "Chris got a weird message and figured it was either an emergency or a prank. I went with him to check it out. Fruitcake was sick... He couldn't even stand up."

"Shit," Sammy hissed, running his tongue along his teeth. "Did he get hurt? What about his big rubber match with Papa Bear?"

Everyone turned bewildered looks to their youngest member. _Papa Bear_ was not a moniker they'd openly heard Sammy use.

Sammy's cheeks dusted red at what was a borderline Freudian slip. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Just sayin'. Big match coming up."

Hager breathed out a heavy sigh and decided to ignore Sammy's blunder. "I don't know, okay? Just... maybe take it easy on him for a while."

"Protect Orange Cassidy," Santana agreed with a nod.

"Protect the Orange," Ortiz ad-libbed.

"Keep an eye on that Juicy Fruit," Sammy concluded. When all eyes were on him again, he forced a laugh. "It's a joke! Lighten up, I swear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapters are hard!


	9. Tropicana with Pulp

What could have been a fun evening was sour from the get-go. Chuck and Trent exchanged looks, a silent conversation seeming to take place while Orange Cassidy slumped against Trent's chest and feigned exhaustion.

Chuck was supportive and fun and happy to help Orange at the drop of a hat, but Trent had a subtle bit of nurturing in the way he held himself, so for Orange to go straight to Trent was like ringing an alarm bell.

Something was wrong, and Orange was neither easily rattled nor one to talk about his personal life.

"You want a beer? What about a movie?" Chuck tried and when both offers were ignored he cut it with a tasteless anecdote he hoped would make his buddy crack a smile.

No dice. His favorite fruit slice remained silent and wilted. 

Trent slipped a firm arm around Orange Cassidy and took another approach. "It's good to have you here, man. Chuck is a more quiet masturbator when you're around."

"Oh, fuck you, Trent," Chuck quipped in place of wit and opened himself a twist-top. 

Orange only sighed and sat up. He had a migraine coming on that was on par with a hangover. "The Mimosa thing isn't full-script," he muttered. His voice was low enough that he expelled more breath than words, but in the silence of the room he might as well have been speaking into a microphone.

"No script?" Chuck prompted and awaited an explanation.

Trent got it though. "Partially scripted... with an open ending?"

Orange shrugged, noncommittal. "I need to win this one."

It was strange, seeing the blonde concerned over a match. Win or lose, he usually enjoys the job and all the love and hate that comes with it. It's baffling to see him so torn. While he didn't outwardly appear distressed, the man's unease was visible in the low bow of his head, the firm set of his jaw, and the rigid way he postured himself.

"You'll win," Trent said simply, not a hint of doubt in his voice. "You're Freshly Squeezed Orange Cassidy. You're the _Juice_! You go with the flow and no one can stop you when you're at the top of your game." Trent was trying to help psych his buddy up, but he got the feeling that it wasn't working.

Orange confirmed Trent's suspicions with a grumble of: "I'm not at the top of my game. But I need to be."

"We'll help," Chuck insisted. "I mean, what are Best Friends for?" He chugged his beer and dropped the bottle into a waste bin.

Trent eased himself away from Orange and grabbed a duffel bag. He rummaged through it and pulled out an arm band and some sport tape. "We have Tropicana in the fridge too."

"Tropicanaaaa," Chuck repeated within a flirtatious brow waggle, as if the mere word was seductive and alluring. "With and without pulp."

Orange Cassidy didn't fight the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth and erupted into a small laugh. The Best Friends were infectious with good vibes, and he was glad for their companionship.

But thoughts along those lines lead him full-circle and he goes back to reprimanding himself for letting his guard down around Jericho. The man can literally end his career, and Orange _gave_ him that power.

His stomach gets that weightless and almost-sick roller-coaster jolt feeling when Chuck picks him up. It's nauseating but it doesn't last long. 

Trent holds onto the tape and arm band and goes to grab a carton of Tropicana. They keep the juice readily available like most people keep Ibuprofen or Tylenol or Advil.

Orange has a loose and non-objective hold on Chuck as he's carried. His mind is reeling and he swallows down a dose of rising bile. He thinks back to the early days of his career, when he was younger and had more enthusiasm to shell out. He learned quick that he was good, but he didn't have the size or weight to compete the same way the larger wrestlers did. So, he came up with something different. Something more casual, humorous, and downright impressive. What he can do with his hands in his pockets is something many can't do with their hands free.

It's a trip, acknowledging that. It's a figurative suicide dive off the ropes. And it's a backslide pin to consider how honestly good he is when he really tries. 

He's fast, strong, athletic. What he lacks in size he makes up for with ingenuity and showmanship.

He loves what he does. It's not his fault that sometimes he's just not that into it. At the end of the day, it is a _job_. And who actually _wants_ to work? So, he creates a happy medium and coasts through, finding success and failure in scale with his level of intent... script pending, of course.

Now though, he can't be lax about it. Not when there is so much at stake.

He's going to drop Le Champion into a vat of Mimosa. 

He tries to smile at the thought. Because he wants to win. He needs to win. But his smile comes off as more of a grimace and he lets it fall from his face before either of the Best Friends notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on art for the story! Hope to add it soon!


	10. COMPLETED ARTWORK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda crappy but art had to happen!


	11. Scratching the Itch

_Hang in there._ The words are there, boldly scripted on a colorful backdrop with a wide-eyed mammal serving as the foreground. That mammal is a monster: a fur-bound creature with boiling hot blood, razor sharp teeth and claws, and... it's a kitten... hanging onto a tree branch.

It's a silly inspirational quote with a too-cute image that makes people pull a face and say ' _awwe_ '. 

The poster is a quite literal gift from the Best Friends, and Orange Cassidy refuses to admit how touched he is by the gesture. 

Orange is slightly less touched when he is in the middle of a set of pull-ups (his body doesn't stay in shape without a little effort) and a visitor happens by.

Trent gets the door and leads the way like a restaurant host, and the surprise guest happens to be one Sammy Guevara.

It's weird, seeing the tongue-flicking panda boy without the rest of the Inner Circle. Even more odd than the visit, Sammy comes bearing a gift. Prompted by the older man's silence, he explains: "Jake said to do something nice. So, brought you some Sunny G." It's a jug of Sunny Delight with the latter part of the name scribbled out black and white-out used to write _Guevara_. Sammy must have thought it clever. He flashes a grin and proceeds to invade Orange's personal space. "Are you going to stay here or go back to Chris's? It's kinda dumpy here..."

"Hey!" Chuck huffed, affronted. He didn't need some Inner Circle stooge talking down on their digs. Maybe he could have put his socks in the hamper, and maybe he had empty chip bags laying around, and maybe- Okay. It's a little dumpy.

Sammy ignored the larger man and continued to pester the blonde. "You left a buncha stuff there, so... yeah. You going back? To stay or pack, or... yeah. Okay."

Orange said nothing. He looked the Spanish God over, briefly eyed the Sunny G, and continued another four pull-ups with his eyes trained on that cat poster.

_Hang in there._

He's trying to hang on. He's relaxed enough to regain some composure but he's hyper-focused on an itch on his foot. It's not bad enough to warrant immediate attention but it does cause him to grind his teeth.

"Do you wanna hang out or something?" Sammy set the Sunny Delight down, reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He took a step closer to the blonde, practically mashing their bodies together as he swiped over the screen, opened a camera app, and took a selfie with Orange Cassidy. Typing a caption, he read aloud as his fingers tapped along the keypad: "Chillin with Orange. Feelin fresh." He glanced at Cassidy and bluntly stated: "Truth. I'm here to check in on you. If I don't have a good report, the other guys are going to be coming. Sooo, what will it be?"

Orange Cassidy considered Sammy's words but refused a verbal response Instead he let go of the bar and headed for the bathroom. 

"Ya gotta take a leak, man?" Guevara called, louder than necessary. A thought occurred to him and he voiced it shamelessly: "Hey! Do you piss orange? I've done that before. Too much creatine, I swear."

The human-sloth didn't take the bait or share the mirth. He sauntered along, scuffing his feet along the carpet in hopes that the friction would take care of the itch on his foot. It didn't. When he got to the bathroom he left the door wide open, climbed in the tub, and laid down. It wasn't comfortable, the porcelain too hard and too cold, but it _felt_ private. And he needed to think.

"You alright? Tired?" Sammy tried again for communication. He thought about going in and repeating the question but decided against it. "Whatever, Orange Slice. I'm out." He adjusted his hat and headed for the door. He'd send Hager by later.

Trent let Guevara out and kept a distrustful eye on him until he was out of sight.

Chuck headed into the bathroom with Orange. 

Orange Cassidy in the tub like this, it's almost as alarming as Orange seeking Trent for comfort. A little known fact, and it will remain as such: the blonde had been terrified of storms when he was a child; and he'd seek solace by hiding in the bathroom, sometimes all night. At least that's the story he'd leaked to Chuck once. But the story was a lie. Believable, but bullshit. Because Chuck had been there when they were kids. Chuck had seen Orange flee to the bathroom and curl up into a tight ball with his hands over his ears- not to hide from the clap of thunder... but to block out raised voices of his parents arguing.

Orange didn't cry, even at a tender age. But he did squint his eyes shut and cover his ears and hide in the bathroom tub.

Chuck had been there through the domestic disputes, the first bad breakup, the first ' _oh shit_ ' moment after a minor car accident. And he'd been there on one of the early occasions when Orange got sick and just didn't seem to get better. It took entirely too long for some fresh-out-of-college doctor to say: "You seem to be lacking some Vitamin C, I'll prescribe supplements. Try drinking a bit of juice too."

Memory Lane aside, the bathroom is a decidedly safe place, and Orange takes up that position on rare occasions when he needs to clear his head and Vine compilations aren't doing the trick 

Trent joins the other men in the bathroom and it becomes apparent just how small the facility is. But they don't mind. Trent's eyes are on their blonde friend, and he understands that there is some underlying grief here. He just hasn't put it all together yet.

"Someone sent Guevara to check in on you. Think it was Jericho?" Trent voices this aloud and it's a logical question.

But it is also the wrong question, because Orange stiffens and turns his head away, not wanting to look at either Best Friends. It's childish, he knows, but he's not fully aware of Guevara's intent, nor the Inner Circle's, and especially not Jericho's. There are too many variables here, and the worst part is, he almost -maybe a little- misses Le Champion.

He thinks about the ridiculous care the man puts into brushing his hair, the horribly patterned shirts and the robes that are just as bad. He thinks about the fact that Jericho bought _marmalade_... just for Orange Cassidy. Orange thinks about the time he pulled on his shoes... and it was _Jericho_ who told him to wait, then stooped down on one knee to tie the laces.

Orange swallows hard, a lump forming in his throat.

He thinks about eating takeout and sipping juice and watching through a window as Chris jumps in the pool.

Orange takes a deep breath.

He thinks about wrestling in the kitchen, how Chris was willing to humor him out of the ring even though, in a real and honest fight, Chris could end him with a solid blow.

And there would be no comical shimmy and an ultimate escape.

Orange tossed these thoughts and a hundred like it around in his head and came to an almost haunting conclusion.

Chuck called Orange by name and nickname, trying to pull him out of his thoughts and gain his attention. It's Trent's firm hand on the blonde's chest that's does the trick.

Orange Cassidy sits up so fast that his sunglasses slip and his eyes are revealed wide and huge and vulnerable. He's breathing in quick little bursts but manages to calm himself down enough to confess: "I'm fucked. I might have a very _non-professional_ interest in Jericho."

Trent's mouth falls open, speechless.

Chuck does a little better with: "Stay here. I am getting you a drink, and you will drink until you're drunk enough to tell us everything." Chuck exits to make good on his word. 

With only himself and Trent in the bathroom, Orange allows himself a sheepish grin, raises a leg and rests a foot on the edge of the tub. "I have an itch. Give it a scratch?'


	12. Afterthought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Crude language and blow job mimicry in this chapter.  
> Read at your own risk.

Time is funny: how it moves, rebounds, and cycles. It's constant and yet many people find ways to stop moving altogether.

The widow that holds onto her late husband. The child that finishes high school but never really grows up. The amputee who sits in a chair and eventually stops trying to get back up...

And then there are those who are lost to time for an entirely different reason. The ones who outrun and outgun and exist beyond the measure of time. The ones who thrive and survive and overcome and conquer.

Time is relative in its passing, depending on who is counting hours and marking off calendar days.

But time means absolutely nothing when you're gut-deep with alcohol and decidedly sloshed.

With the insistence of Chuck and the support of Trent, Orange Cassidy is completely smashed over a very one-sided game of Never Have I Ever. In fact, he seems to be the only one drinking at all.

"Never have I ever been groped or slapped on the ass while taking a piss in public."

The movie Fast and the Furious plays on in the background, and Orange has to stop periodically to look at the screen and lip sync the dialogue or make a grand gesture for something loud or explosive. At varying points, he claps either Best Friend on the arm or chest (wherever he can reach) and spouts a line that begins with: "Oh, this is the part where..."

He can't help the compulsive actions; he accepts them as symptoms that come with inebriation.

Chuck is laughing alongside Orange and Trent is keeping tabs on the time. They need to be up early to run through some script, rehearse a few stunts and make sure everything is coordinated.

"Get some sleep after the movie," Trent says with a tone that leaves little room for protest.

Orange complains anyway, almost whining when he says "this is only the first one."

Chuck wipes away laughter-induced tears but sides with Trent. "You can't stay up long enough to make it to Fast 5."

"We didn't even finish the game yet," Orange nods in the general direction of the bottle of vodka they'd been using for straight shots. His throat has a familiar burn and his stomach is warm in a way that makes him feel like he could curl up and go to sleep. The more he thinks on it, the more he realizes that, yeah, he's a little tired. 

Trent takes the remote and drops the volume low enough that it's barely audible. Then it's a tag team effort maneuvering and shuffling Orange around to get him out of his jacket, shirt, and jeans. Sunglasses come off last and Orange is laid out on the couch in front of the tv.

"Last one," Chuck says, voice whisper-quiet.

Orange hums and his eyes start to close.

"Never have I ever looked at Chris Jericho and thought about banging him." As Chuck speaks his face splits into a cheeky grin; he has the look of someone who'd just gotten the new high score on the pinball machine and used a dirty word in place of their initials.

Orange doesn't notice; he is unresponsive for the longest time, eyes set towards the tv and gradually slipping the rest of the way closed. 

Chuck is about to leave and let the blonde get some sleep when a reply finally comes. "He's a big guy. Don't know what to do with that big dick." He opens his mouth to form a wide 'O', lips pulling over his teeth in a manner that is entirely too practiced; he undulates his tongue and hollows his cheeks and obscenely slurps at his own saliva.

"I'm out," Trent concedes, hands up in a gesture of surrendering.

Chuck is admittedly startled at first but the surprise passes as quickly as it came. He couldn't care less who or what excites Orange Cassidy; what matters is that his buddy actually _is_ excited over someone that isn't in The Fast and the Furious franchise. It takes zero thought to decide that support will be given in spades. He sits with his longtime friend until he's sure the blonde has fallen asleep.

Trent turns off the movie and puts away the alcohol. Then he and Chuck clean up the odds and ends (mostly Chuck's mess) so the place appears more tidy. They work in relative peace, neither sure what to say. Or maybe there was simply nothing to be said. 

It's a welcome reprieve when someone knocks on the door and Trent goes to answer. He's got one hand on a broom and the other one pulling the door open.

Jake Hager's on the other side, and the man shoots arm out to grab the door, as if a member of Best Friends might slam the door in his face instead of permitting entry. "Hear me out," Hager says quickly.

Trent squares his shoulders and tightens his grip on the broom handle. Visits like this aren't the static norm, and it's unsettling.

"How's Fruitcake doing?" Hager shifts his footing and gradually lets go of the door when it seems like the other wrestler is going to allow his presence. "He was sick last time I saw him."

Trent's entire body visibly slacked and he let out a breath of stale air. "How sick?" he had to ask. Orange tended to leave out important details like that.

"Fruitcake couldn't stand up, and I think he had a fever."

Trent's breathing was deep and controlled, but he was fuming on the inside. If Cassidy needed a doctor and was avoiding the issue, he'd have to do something about that. "He doesn't have a fever right now," Trent says simply, his tone more clipped than intended.

"What was wrong with him?" Jake meant well by asking, but the way he moved to let himself inside the living quarters was apparently too intrusive because Trent reacted by giving Jake a rough shove.

"No one invited you. What are you and the Inner Circle getting up to?"

It's Hager who has the gall to look affronted. "I'm invested."

It's then that Chuck comes over check out the situation. He looks a little ridiculous wearing a pair of yellow rubber cleaning gloves. "Hager?" There's profanity sitting on his tongue but he doesn't let it slip. For Orange. This could be important.

"We wanna help the guy out. Is it that hard to believe?" Hager is trying, but his sincerity reeks of bullshit.

"None of you have any way to back up that claim," Trent deadpans. "Jericho has beaten Cassidy with a bat... off-script."

Chuck shoves his way past Trent to get closer to Hager. He jabs a finger at Hager's chest and reminds him: "You've all painted a target on his back and jumped him for the sake of personal amusement and fan ratings. Some of that shit is scripted but the blood and bruises are fucking real."

Both members of Best Friends are livid. How can they not be after having to patch up their buddy after some of the more brutal attacks? 

"I can prove myself," Hager says, and he feels stupid and young, like when he was just starting out and seeking approval for a well fought match. "I'll prove it. I'll back Fruitcake during his match with Chris."

"You should go," Trent takes a civil approach. 

"Yeah, Hager, fuck off!" Chuck isn't so polite. As an afterthought, he considers Orange Cassidy's potential involvement with Jericho and amends with: "Keep things fair during the match. No outside interference... and if the Demo God decides to sneak a dry hump during the fight, we'll pretend not to notice."


	13. Trouble

The Natural Nightmares, Best Friends, Young Bucks, and FTR are running over scripts, seeing where they have creative liberties, and coordinating placement and stunts. It's a codependent job, acting well enough to suspend the fans from reality while maintaining relative safety and minimal injuries.

Orange Cassidy is attending as well, and while he is there in body, his spirit is doing all the phantom cheering as he grabs his own script and seeks solace in a corner to look it over. He's got his sunglasses on, but his face is still a little red from the night before and too much movement is sure make him hurl. Sitting on the floor and resting his back against the wall, he shuffles his papers and takes a rough skim at how the intros play out, then flips to the end to sneak a peak. Sure enough, the ending is left open. Unscripted. Meaning either wrestler can walk away with a win, and the final stunts will not be practiced or planned.

And that's where real injuries are more likely to happen.

If it's not planned or a move is not anticipated...

If Wrestler Number One picks up Wrestler Number Two, Wrestler Number Two needs to be aware of how to hold his body and how to maneuver himself to land in a way that won't break a leg or arm or neck.

Endeavoring stunts without a script invites real danger. 

Orange lets his gaze sweep the venue and he catches sight of Jericho mid-discussion with a ref.

It's unsettling at best, and for a moment, he wonders if he's supposed to be schmoozing someone to sway things in his favor But he doesn't do that. It's not what he or his in-ring persona want to do. So he does nothing other than close his eyes and will his hangover to pass.

His eyes are closed and he's slumped over for a hard nap when Jericho finds time to approach and greet.

Chris Jericho is many things. Le Champion, Demo God, Le Sex God, a Bubbly endorser, a good wrestler, and a pompous douchebag. But he is a lot of other things too; things that aren't often put into words. And Jericho is one of those unnamed things when he makes his way over to Orange Cassidy and sets a bottle of juice down next to the smaller man.

Jericho studies the sleeping wrestler, wordless in his own thoughts. Mostly, he considers _Orange_.

Orange, with his sufferingly lax demeanor and saunteringly slow pace. Orange, with the way he tilts his head back when he's eating something particularly good, then licks his fingers clean like an uncultured child. Orange, the way he landed on the kitchen floor and laughed because the surface was too hard. Orange, the way he holds a presence and commands attention simply by existing.

Almost everything about the man is a joke wrapped in an enigma that costumes the human epitome of sunken treasure, and Jericho is intrigued enough to want to figure it all out.

It's a puzzle that his brain won't rest over.

Learning that Orange Cassidy was vitamin deficient to an extreme extent raised a lot of red flags and Jericho had, perhaps, overreacted. Or maybe he reacted the right amount but had done so in the wrong way. He couldn't explain it, but his gut twisted up at the thought of Orange suffering in silence and going out of his way to hide health concerns.

It wasn't safe or practical.

But after having some time away from the sloth-like man, Jericho had time to think, and after a while he more or less gets it.

Had Jericho been suffering an ailment that might take him out of the ring, he'd probably sweep it under the rug until the decision came back to bite him in the ass.

And if he's perfectly honest, he's caught other wrestlers doing the same thing, chugging cold medicine or taking too many painkillers, giving extra firm tape-jobs to wrists, ankles, and knees when they have fractures or breaks.

Hell, Kenny Omega opened up about trying cupping therapy to repair muscle damage.

A lot of people do it. So why does Chris need to call out the Freshly Squeezed one? Why can't he let Orange have his career until his decisions rear an ultimate consequence?

If he could turn back time, he'd let the matter go. But he can't. And he won't back out of the Mimosa Mayhem Match.

The stakes will remain.

If Orange Cassidy cannot adequately compete, he shouldn't be in the ring.

Except, the ring is practically home to the guy- and most wrestlers. There's a level of comfort not found anywhere else.

For the Mimosa rubber match, Jericho's ego naturally wants to win. But the more human side of him is pulling for the rise of Orange 

He's torn. Between wanting to let Cassidy win, but also wanting the fight to be fair to them both.

It's a dilemma that causes him heartburn and he's already got a headache. 

His mind is reeling still, from recent events. The previous night, Inner Circle acted without consulting him first, and they'd gone to check on their unofficial honorary member.

Sammy Guevara had reported back that ' _Orange Slice was killin it with those pull-ups_ ' but also ' _living in a dump with the Best Friends_.'

The arrangement wasn't anything new. It's common knowledge, on the record, that Orange and Chuck Taylor are longtime friends and roommates and that Trent was the responsible third-wheel they needed to function without toppling over.

Jake Hager reported a little later, huffing that he didn't actually go in, but he spoke to the Best Friends and they seem to be taking care of Fruitcake. It was also discreetly mentioned that Hager supported any and all weird man-love that Jericho might pursue.

It was odd, to say the least, that Hager had jumped at the chance to look after someone he'd beaten to a pulp (pun intended) more than a few times.

Santana and Ortiz reported back as well, but things hadn't gone as planned and they ended up at the wrong address, which landed them on some poor woman's doorstep in the middle of the night. They left in a hurry to avoid further drama.

Which brings Chris Jericho to the realization that Orange Cassidy is entirely too much trouble, for the Inner Circle and Le Champion himself.

Yet, he concedes, sometimes, the best things in life are a lot of trouble.


	14. Staged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had to re-watch AEW so I didn't butcher details. I'm not going to follow along and just write what happens, but I did want to include some events, and I didn't want to be called out for inaccuracy  
> Sorry if this drags out too much.  
> HERE THERE BE SPOILERS FOR ACTUAL AEW OCCURRENCES.
> 
> Also, I started drafting the Mimosa Mayhem Match because I have a fun idea I'd like to incorporate, but I don't want to finalize anything yet.

Professional wrestling is, first and foremost, a show. It's athletic, it's sporty, it's dangerous and fun, and it is damn full of feeling. If fans aren't gasping and booing and cheering then somebody is failing at their job.

For a show to go right, a lot of people have to be on point at particular instances, and when feuds go from script to personal vendettas, staged events become more of a risk than a ploy.

All things considered, the Gauntlet Match goes well, depending on the perspective.

Natural Nightmares lose out to the Young Bucks and the Jackson brothers next take on Best Friends. It's planned, it's coordinated. It isn't full-script but they already know the outcome they are edging towards. This just gives them some wiggle room for innovation, except Chuck hurts his knee and Trent works himself a little hard to pick up the slack while his friend and partner takes a few to nurse the injury.

Later, Trent takes a big hit, goes down on the apron with a suplex.

When Best Friends are able to regroup and go in for an iconic hug, Tony verbalizes his approval while Jericho makes his rebuke clear.

Young Bucks are going to lose. It was printed in black and white and handed out among the teams. The script is vague in stating: ' _surprise interference causes YB to lose, BF advances_ ' and after FTR's written entrance, there are alarmingly few details, which makes everyone a little uneasy.

But they all have a job to do, and the fans are watching, and Jericho is assisting commentary, and-

-and it's 'Hangman' Adam Page who interferes, and the Young Bucks are crushed over the betrayal.

Real feelings are had, none of them pleasant.

Meanwhile, tag team FTR enter the ring and Chuck is the instant target.

Best Friends are going to lose. Chuck and Trent know this. FTR knows this. Everyone who has a script fucking knows.

What no one was prepared for, though, was Chuck's knee being such an issue, let alone a focal point for FTR to kick and pound and wrap around the post.

It's absolute agony and it's almost a mercy when the pin finally takes place. 

FTR celebrates their advance and Trent helps Chuck make a less than savory exit. Expletives make up the bulk of the words that shoot like vomit from Chuck's mouth, and Trent tries to hush his partner while they pass a particularly young fan.

Out of camera-view and resting on a bench, Best Friends can finally breathe and assess the situation. It's a comfort that Orange Cassidy is there and seated, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

Times like this, Orange is a rock. A steady and familiar point of comfort.

Trent helps Chuck out of his knee pads and receives a reflexive smack to the side of the head.

Chuck mutters an apology, but smacks again when Trent _touches_ the inflamed and discolored knee.

"It looks bad. We should probably ice it," Trent gives the knee a light squeeze to see if anything feels out of place, and his injured partner yelps indignantly and nearly throws himself off the bench in an effort to get away from the pain.

Thankfully, Orange is there, quiet and patient, pensive. He rubs his hands together and with his hands warmed by friction he places them feather-light on Chuck's knee in a Mr. Miyagi manner of treatment.

Chuck's entire body tenses and he lets out a hiss but allows the gentle contact. That along with some deep breathing helps him adjust to the pain.

It has to be okay. It has to get better. Chuck doesn't want another damn surgery.

Fuck FTR and their cheap shots.

Chuck would kill for some strong painkillers and ten minutes off-camera to beat the shit out of those bastards.

Judging by the set of his jaw and the look in his eye, Trent feels the same. But there is protocol. Rules. And they have already broken more than a few; they don't need more discrepancies on the record.

In a welcomed gesture, Orange Cassidy slips loose arms around both Best Friends, letting them know they have whatever support he can offer.

Not bothering to keep up with everything going on for tonight's events, the trio are still able to catch some of the mic'd up stints.

There's a particular din of excitement when Darby Allin crashes the party to attack Ricky Starks.

MJF makes a scene with Jon Moxley, and the latter man's decree of "I should have been a lawyer" is strangely loud and out of place post contract-signing.

By the time the Dark Order does their bit, an undergrad med student has attempted to take a look at Chuck's knee, and the result was less than stellar, landing with the kid also injured, and Best Friends getting some heat and an assist to a hospital. They ask Orange to come but the human-sloth lazily waves them off.

He wants to see the end of the show.

He's been battling himself for entirely too long, and he's finally worked up the energy to channel that drive externally. 

Guevara and Matt Hardy's match had been a highly anticipated one.

Orange can take note on that because he is up and poking his head out from time to time to see what's going on. It's not that he cares or that the match is any concern of his, but he does like Matt Hardy as a wrestler and friend. And Guevara... has been unnervingly civil; he doesn't loathe the kid as much as he should. (There's an unopened jug of Sunny G that Orange Cassidy is unlikely to ever drink. But the jest does warrant appreciation.)

And, Orange is waiting. For the end. He caught a good view of where Jericho sits at the announcers' table, and that's his mark.

Their big fight is so close.

Why not push a little, for publicity? It's what they do, isn't it? 

And he wants to make it preemptive that he won't sit back and let things just happen...

The match concludes with a bloodied and beaten Guevara landing Matt through a table for the win.

The crowd is wailing their excitement and the cameras are doing their job to catch all the good stuff.

And they do, when Orange Cassidy's form blurs across the stage from the back side, speeds by the tunnels and throws himself at Jericho. His joints are stiff and his body is sore but he rains his punches down for all he is worth.

It takes a group of referees and Guevara to separate them, and then Jericho reruns the favor.

Jericho _gets_ it, sees the stunt for what it is. It's a surprise. It's hype. It's anger and excitement and frustration.

It's personal and honest and open.

They trade blows and struggle away from the arms and hands that interfere.

It's adrenaline and pain and adrenaline again.

Fuel and fire and destruction and awe. It's the kind of train wreck people can't look away from.

It's a rare sight to see so much enthusiasm in Orange, and a selfish part of Jericho wants to see more of it. When he retaliates, it has nothing do with putting an end to the fight and everything to do with prolonging it. He shoves refs out of the way and covers Cassidy with his entire frame. He doesn't hit as hard as he can but he knows it won't feel good. There will be bruises and everything will hurt.

It's supposed to though. No one shouldn't be in a fight without knowing the push and jab of their opponent. A fight without backlash isn't a fight at all.

It's a trade-off. All punches and no blocking. No self preservation.

And it is worth it too see such an eruption of passion from someone usually so nonchalant.

Cassidy is giving it just as good as he is getting it.

Fire burns at both ends, and neither man wants to be rescued.

The fight keeps on while there are spouts of advertisements for All Out, and when the cameras cut, the fight is still going.

Jericho gets Orange down and goes in for a pin, and for the sake of finality all refs present throw their hands down in amazingly perfect sync for a count.

It's a shame the cameras are no longer rolling. Because it's a glorious moment.

The fans are still present and shout to count along.

It's on the two-count when Orange gives a loud breath of: "We should get something to eat after this."

Jericho is just surprised enough to let his hold slip and Orange Cassidy shimmies out and rolls away.

Both wrestlers get up and stare each other down. 

From the fans' perspective, it looks like the tension is overflowing and they are barely restraining themselves from continuing to fight.

Jericho plays it up. "During All-Out, I'll see _you_ for Mimosa Mayhem!" 

The crowd loves it.

Orange juts his chin up and lolls his head in his usual manner. He's quiet, and that's what people expect.

Hs breaks character with a crooked smile and a: "Bring your swim trunks. For your mimosa swim. I'll bring you a towel."

The wrestlers, crew, and crowd all fall silent at that. The arena is left so quiet that Orange's retreating footsteps are heard like a low drum.

Tony Schiavone takes it upon himself to approach Jericho to ask: "You know the cameras cut awhile ago, right?"

"All the world's a stage." With that, Chris Jericho allowed himself to consider and evaluate a mesh of confusion and curiosity.

_Did Orange Cassidy ask him to dinner?_


	15. Bubbly and Acidic

Bubbly and acidic. Very descriptive words and a daring combination.

Effervescent and tangy.

Jericho considers this as he walks down the sidewalk and eyes the plastic cup in his hand. His surroundings are less than impressive and there are at least half a dozen better things he couldn't be doing... instead of taking a walk and drinking a watered-down soda that was flat when he got it and was starting to get warm.

But he asked for it. Those words left his mouth and he slapped a crisp bill into the greasy hands of a street vendor.

And he walked away with one of the most disappointing beverages he's had in a long time. 

What might potentially make it worth it, though, is the person walking alongside him. The smaller man being almost dweebish with his ' _sunglasses at night_ ' shtick and outdated apparel.

But there is a strange level of charm- expectation, suspense, and exertion- in the way Orange Cassidy's arm moves. Slow, steady, from just above waist-height... to his mouth; his hand encasing a bun-sunk hotdog.

And maybe it's ridiculous.

Maybe it's funny or bizarre.

But it's not _bad_.

Orange Cassidy had a smear of dry blood above his lip where his nose bled from their fight. It's barely noticeable in the late hour with colored lights dropping a warm glow.

Both men are silent during their walk. It's not a bad silence. It's just different.

Everything about Cassidy is different, and Chris is still adjusting and getting used to it.

"Tonight was good," Jericho finally finds his voice, then clams up and wishes he hadn't said a word. He's not sure what to talk about.

And really, how do you talk to someone who drags his feet along the pavement and is eating a weiner? How can the conversion carry the depth it surely needs?

Jericho gets his answer when Orange swallows hard, then, like it's the most easy thing in the world, he says: "It was fun."

Once again, the Demo God is surprised and needs a moment to collect his thoughts. He has to do this entirely too much when the slighter man is around. 

The feud they have on camera, it's a big deal. It's raising Cassidy's popularity and scaling his success into something on par with that of a superstar. And it's keeping Jericho relevant in the spotlight, so he doesn't fall through the cracks and become another has-been that just makes cameos.

It's good for both of them.

And, in retrospect, good or bad, Chris has enjoyed it too. When his mouth decides to run off without checking in with his brain, he agrees. "It has been fun, hasn't it? Making history and taking our lumps," he nudges Orange a little hard and the smaller wrestler stumbles and drops the rest of his hotdog.

Orange stops in his tracks and tilts his head down to look at his lost food. Whether he is mournful or disinterested, it's hard to tell.

Chris stops with him and his face scrunches up. There is a brief moment where he considers telling Cassidy: _Do not put that thing back in your mouth,_ but he refrains, and both men resume walking under the assumption that something will eat it later.

It's decidedly not weird with the lack of conversation. The lack of talking has Jericho looking for other things to focus on.

It seems sentimental to see Orange pull out his phone, scroll through the photo gallery, and tap on what appears to be a picture of a poster- one of those cat ones that say 'Hang in there.' He selects the share option and sends it to ChuckieT.

Jericho almost asks how Chuck Taylor is doing, but he doesn't. He thinks there should be boundaries; he's not sure where the lines are and how best not to cross them.

They walk until Orange visibly stiffens and hunches over, his knees bend a little and his shoulders sag. He's breathing deep and his fingers have a subtle twitch like they want to ball up into fists.

Chris looks down at his stupid plastic cup and wishes the street vendor had sold juice, or something remotely nutritious. He'd give it to Cassidy. Instead, he pitches the cup- liquid and all- into a trash bin.

Orange's breathing slows and deepens further and it takes a fraction of a second for Jericho to realize that Cassidy fell asleep standing up. He quickly slings an arm around the sunglassed wrestler and holds him steady.

Unsure of what else to do, Le Champion picks up his exhausted companion and holds him close. 

It's nothing like when he picks him up in the ring.


	16. Embarrassed

Orange Cassidy had been placed in the guest bedroom. He's left fully clothed, jacket and all, though Jericho did conscientiously remove the sneakers and sunglasses.

While Orange slept like the dead, Jericho couldn't bring himself to sleep if he wanted. He's got too much on his mind and he's used to staying out all night. He sends out messages to flag the Inner Circle over. He doesn't check for affirmative replies, just assumes they'll show.

Jericho grabs a glass and pours himself some Bubbly while he waits. His temples pulse while he mentally sorts things out. 

Guevara arrives seemingly in record time, lets himself in, and drops himself into a chair next to Chris. Sammy's sporting a nice gash from his last fight. It wasn't bad enough for stitches but he's proud of his dope new battle scars.

"So, Orange jumped you..." Sammy cuts to the chase, elbows resting on the table as he leans a little too close. The behavior and general attitude are a glaring reminder of just how young he is.

Jericho envies the youth, but he'll never say it. He has experience and pride and adaptability. Youth brings entirely too much naivete.

"Are you two going on script, or is he really pissed at you?" 

It's a valid question. Jericho has had ample time to mull it over already, so he replies as simply as he can.

"We're just having a bit of fun." He looks at Sammy, his face hard and unreadable. "Don't make it into something if it isn't something."

The kid's mouth twisted to the side as he bites at the inside of his cheek and then worries his teeth over his bottom lip. He's thinking too hard about something that doesn't concern him, and Chris kinda wants to slap him in the back of the head.

Sammy gets up from his seat and goes to the fridge. Whether he wants something to eat or drink, Jericho doesn't care. It's understood and expected that the boys make themselves at home wherever they are. The young wrestler doesn't grab himself anything though. Instead he holds the refrigerator door open and gestures to the contents.

More specifically, to the fruit and the juice and the marmalade and the leftover takeout- none of which are Chris's. He shuts the door harder than intended.

Jericho doesn't say a word. He owes no explanation.

Sammy's eyes roam around and catch onto the beaten and worn shoes that rest by the doormat. Then he notes the denim jacket that rests casually on a hook- like it belongs there next to Le Champion's scarves.

"He's moved in with you," Sammy states bluntly. "He eats and sleeps here. His Instagram has selfies with your stuff in the background..."

Jericho never thought of to check Cassidy's posts. He only ever bothers promoting himself and the Inner Circle and hyping up AEW as a brand. But now he's a little curious...

"He fucking sprints over and attacks you during commentary ," Sammy pushes. He runs a hand through his hair and huffs a frustrated breath. "I dunno, man. It's weird. 

Chris takes a long drink from his glass. Because he's thristy, and okay, maybe the situation is weird. He's not denying it. He's man enough to own it for what it is.

_But what is it, exactly?_

Santana and Ortiz announce their presence after coming in through the back door.

"Saw that the Orange put up a fight," Santana says immediately.

Ortiz is right there with a follow-up of "he was all up on your case, for no reason."

Jericho finishes his drink and pours another. "We have an understanding," the words come with a tired sigh, and as he says them, Chris isn't entirely sure what that understanding is supposed to be.

"No you don't." Santana again, and he's hyped. "But Sammy and Matt Hardy have an understanding, don't you, bro?" He throws a hand out for a fist bump and Guevara's face lights up like a kid on Christmas.

With the subject shifted to Guevara's match and the young Spanish God soaking up the attention, Chris feels a little more relaxed.

It's easy to spend time with the Inner Circle. No complications or introspection.

When Hager arrives, the door shoots open and he practically spills through it, barely keeping his feet beneath him in his rush to get in. He doubles back to shut the door before jumping right in. "That was brutal, the way Fruitcake ran over to bust your ass, Chris."

Chris rolled his eyes and traced a finger over his glass. "He didn't bust my ass," he defended almost indignantly. "The cameras stopped filming but I had him pinned." He doesn't mention that Orange rolled away before the 3-count or that they went for a walk together, and he sure as hell doesn't say that he watched the man eat a hotdog...

Jake waved off the Demo God's words and added his own. "All that unresolved sexual tension finally getting to you, huh?"

"Sexual ten- There is no sexual tension!" The defense came on loud and firm. Forced and agitated. "It's wrestling. It's going to be physical." Jericho's outburst came with the added bang of his fist against the tabletop, causing his glass to topple and lose its contents in a most unflattering way. He stares at the spreading liquid and adds: "There's nothing sexual about it. If I wanted some damn groupie-"

_-he sure as hell wouldn't pick a slouch of a man like Orange Cassidy._

"Chris- Boss- Papa Bear," Guevara attempted to placate, "It's just a joke. We know you're only putting up with that slacker out of pity because he's sick."

Jericho leveled Sammy with a look that turned murderous. "I don't pity him. There is no damn reason to pity him, and he isn't sick. He has a gimmick, and it works for him. Selling your character is half the job, and if you keep on with this bullshit-"

_-except maybe it isn't entirely bullshit._

He doesn't want everyone to know Orange's secret. It's too invasive, and it's not his secret to share. 

Moreover, he doesn't like the implication that he's taken an interest in the slighter man.

_But, hasn't he?_

He doesn't look at Orange Cassidy like he does a woman with a bulging rack. The appeal isn't there in that way. It's not the same enthusiasm he has when he's about to get his hand up a skirt, a handful of breast, and eventually his dick in her oasis. None of these desires or feelings resonate with whatever is cropping up between himself and his in-ring nemesis.

There is some type of chemistry. On some level, they share similar ideals about their work environment. And when it comes down to it, there's an unmistakable pull.

Orange used to blend in with the scenery; now he's one of the first people Chris notices when they're in the same room.

But for what the boys of the Inner Circle are getting at, it's too much. 

Jericho has no desire to edge his way into naughty territory. It's always weird to make direct eye contact with Orange; he can't imagine seeing anything under those jeans (even if he has seen the man's underwear; it's not like there was anything perverse about it.)

And how gay men do it-

And the entire prospect of sexuality-

Chris threw up in his mouth a little and swallowed it back down. The fact that he'd swallowed anything while thinking about potential gay thoughts with Orange had bile rising for round 2. He forced it back down and gagged a little.

Hager comes to the rescue with a hard pat on the back. "You're alright, Chris. No one thinks any of that shit. We're just saying that we get it. And we got your back no matter what."

Jericho feels sick, and maybe a little tired.

"Someone clean this up," Chris gets up and waves a hand over the spilled Bubbly like he could 'genie' the mess away. "I have to be up at the ass crack of dawn. Keep the volume down and let yourselves out when you're ready." He heads to the master bedroom without another word while his boys mumble awkward goodnights.

When Chris Jericho was well, truly, and rightly off to bed, Santana crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Damn, we gotta get him laid."

Ortiz nodded and he and his partner bumped fists to solidify their agreement.

"I dunno, it's weird and gross, right?" Sammy looked uncertain.

"We're practicing tolerance," Jake said mindfully. "I'm sure everyone will be on board. It could be a good deal for everyone."

Sammy cracked a grin and stifled a laugh. "Yeah... until a romantic walk across the threshold turns into a DDT. "

"Or a little game of footsies leads to Orange's brutal kicks of doom, man." Ortiz cuts the remark and it's clear that he finds humor in his own words.

Santana isn't following along, he's sticking with his point of wanting Chris to bone Cassidy.

Hell, the names even sound good together.

Ortiz pulled a face and asked a question none of them had considered. "What about the size and age difference?"

Santana looked genuinely thoughtful. "Guess it's no more weird than Jake and Sammy." It was meant to be an observation and a joke, but Guevara paled and heat simultaneously rushed to his cheeks.

"Fuck, whatever." The young wrestler tried to tamp down the idea but it had already been planted.

Curious, and because he's an asshole, Hager closed in on Guevara and scooped the smaller wrestler up in his arms like it was effortless.

Sammy let out an indignant yip he wouldn't be caught dead making in the ring. He kicks his legs and twists his body in a way that should allow him to escape but Hager just holds tighter.

"Size is an advantage," Jake says bluntly. "And age? Chris ain't old enough to need little blue pills, and Fruitcake would-"

Sammy squinted his eyes shut and covered his ears. "Please don't talk about them having sex while holding me. I will flip shit, man, for real."

Jake relented and put the Spanish God down, but not before pressing a kiss to Sammy's temple.

Back on his feet, Sammy's mouth hung open wide with shock and a little betrayal. "What the hell, man?"

Hager gave a noncommittal shrug. "Try anything once. Don't be a pussy about it."

Sammy's mortification visibly grew as he caught sight of blurred denim making a hasty retreat down the hall.

"Orange is here," he said, dropping his head into his hands. He just wanted to check in on Chris after that fight. And maybe have a little fun without the guys. This? This wasn't fun. This was stupid and embarrassing.

Hager would be getting a dick pic later, so the big guy could feel stupid and embarrassed too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write this chapter since before Hager used emojis!  
> Also, I might draw up more art. Haven't decided. Suggestions are welcome.


	17. Fruits and Nooses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the match between Jericho and Janela.

It's exciting. The crowd is alive, anticipation high and elation even higher.

It is, quite possibly, the ' _Bad Boy_ ' Joey Janela's _hair_ that seals his fate. His hair is an evolving creature all its own, which is fine, but the moment Jericho sees those pigtails he refuses to take the Joey seriously.

It's impossible. Can't be done. 

Already branded a sacrificial lamb as a prelude to Le Champion's fight with Orange Cassidy, Janela presents himself as a grown ass man in pigtails. 

It's going to be brutal and one-sided.

Jericho's going to mow him over. It's written that way, so there is no real surprise, but innovation is what drives the business forward. So Le Champion is going to do what he does best and turn it into a self-serving spectacle.

He sweetens the deal, using Hager as a catalyst to invite Orange Cassidy to sit ringside.

It's nothing short of amusing when the Freshly Squeezed one shows, comes over with a backpack and claims a seat.

A _backpack_. Of all the things he could do, he shows up looking like a highschool kid who's been held back a couple years. It's... a little endearing. 

Jericho briefly wonders if he'd fit in a locker. It's a little funny, in theory.

In the ring, hyping, taking off his coat, Jericho's sporting an Orange Cassidy shirt. It's as ironic as it is mocking and the crowd absolutely loves the barb.

Orange is as passive as ever as he watches Jericho. And Jericho spends his free moments staring back at Orange.

They make no effort to hide where their attention lies.

It's part of the show.

So it's perfectly justifiable.

He beats on Janela and downs him quickly. Then he's back to playing the crowd and trying to antagonize Orange.

There's a point where Janela gets a good hit in and tries to turn the tables but his efforts are thwarted before they bear any fruit.

The match is finished off _too soon_ with the walls of Jericho and someone off to the side taps their wrist to signal _time_.

They finished too early. The fight hadn't lasted long enough, so Chris needs to eat up time. They can't have several minutes of _nothing_ when they have a live audience.

Jericho rounds back on Janela, tries to make it look good. He exposes the turnbuckle and slams Janela into it. The bashing continues while Hager is off to the side having a shouting match with the audience to override their booing. 

With Janela down hard and bleeding, blood smeared over the novelty shirt, Jericho rips the shirt off and goads Orange again.

It's a ploy. It's supposed to be amusing. But even through the sunglasses Orange appears keyed up. This is further affirmed by how fast he gets up and enters the ring. His fist drives into Jericho and they trade their blows.

Draw it out, make it good. Solid hits, bright red welts.

It's a job, and this is a show. It's not always glorified. And nothing about it is pretty.

Hager comes, seemingly to Jericho's aid but apart from tossing Fruitcake around a little he doesn't aim to hurt the guy. If anyone notices, they don't call it out.

Hager and Jericho double-team Orange- and isn't that some in-ring eroticism? Jake tries to discreetly say as much to Chris, that Orange is bringing his A-game, but then Sonny Kiss is running in.

Cassidy gets back on the offensive, forces Hager out of the ring and the hits up Jericho with a DDT. He goes in for a superman punch but Hager pulls the Demo God to safety.

Having run the clock over and received an awaited signal, they call it done and play up their feud just a bit more.

Orange surprises everyone by retrieving his little backpack and from it pulling out a bottle of Jericho's Bubbly.

Chris loves that. It's funny and it's a perfect insult to injury. The crowd is wild with shouts and Chris would applaud if he were a less professional man.

The beverage is uncorked and dumped while Cassidy points a thumbs-down.

It's a good end to their little shit show and they go their separate ways as Guevara comes out with his cards to taunt and play up his own stint with Hardy.

With the cameras out of the way, Jericho considers paying Orange a compliment for the added jibe and helping to fix the time gap.

He spots Orange and his determination to make good on his plan only grows.

Cassidy isn't sporting his sunglasses; they'd gotten lost during the event. The man's cheeks hold a natural tint from the physical exertion. Along his jaw and foreams, marks are forming that will darken into bruises.

While Orange uncaps a bottle of juice and drinks like a dehydrated man, Jericho studies him, really looks him over, and wonders how many of those bruises he put there. 

Jericho knows he pushes too hard and too far sometimes, but that's just how he is. All or nothing, he doesn't do shit halfway.

Except this time. Because he aborts his plan for communicating with the Freshly Squeezed wrestler.

Janela steps up instead with his head bandaged up, speaks his gratitude. Orange reacts very little, only giving that half-cocked thumbs-up he's known for. And at the precise moment the local Bad Boy steps away, Best Friends are there in full gear.

Jericho has seen their names in the script but wasn't sure they'd show. He thought Chuck had been worked over too much for a speedy return.

But Chuck T's knee is either better or he's hopped up on painkillers. Probably the latter.

Trent is there, rubbing at Cassidy's shoulders in what looks like an awkward massage. He says something Jericho doesn't catch.

Then Chuck chimes in with something that causes Orange to grin and verbally reply.

That. There. The break in character.

Chris wants to know what was said, what had affected Orange enough to get that reaction. It's petty and immature, and he recognizes the feeling of jealousy. It's sour and bitter and uncomfortable.

His mind goes back to wrestling in the kitchen of the condo. He wants more of that feeling. Simple and easy and light in ways that make air seem heavy.

But he has an image to uphold, particularly for AEW. His career is built around a character, and success means holding true to that character.

He leaves Orange with Best Friends. The smaller wrestler is in good hands- literally, since Chuck had picked him up like a damsel.

Jericho goes and gets himself a bottle of Bubbly but doesn't drink it. He likes a party but it's not much of a party if he's by himself.

The rest of the Inner Circle are busy, they can't be at his beck and call.

He needs to shake things up a little.

He racks his brain but all he comes up with is _Orange_.

It sorta pisses him off.

With Mimosa Mayhem coming up so soon, he hopes these feelings- whatever they are- come to an abrupt halt. 

The Bubbly is given to a fan on his way out.

Jericho bumps into Hager along the way, and it's bizarre to see Jake in this light.

The man is smiling, arms drawn and face nearly pressing into his phone. He lets out a weird laugh that might be the most unnatural and masculine _giggle_ Chris has ever heard.

Jericho has to ask. Because maybe it's funny, and he could use a good laugh. 

What Jake replies with, though, is: "Just shooting Sammy a text for later. How many eggplant emojis should I use?"

The Demo God hates the envy that creeps up and wraps around his throat like a noose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might do a side story specifically for Hager and Sammy!


	18. Sweat, Baybee, Sweat

Orange Cassidy really is a slouch of a man, more sloth-like than any other human being Jericho has had a the pleasure or displeasure of knowing. Seeing it firsthand in a natural environmental just solidifies how Orange represents everything Le Champion loathes...

...and something that Chris has come to respect.

Orange Cassidy sits on the sofa, knees spread wide. He's got his shades on- and it leaves room to be curious if the sunglasses are part of the gimmick or an aid for light sensitivity. It's easy to see how wide Orange's eyes get when they're exposed. The reason could go either way.

Chris doesn't ask.

But he does walk over, shove one of Cassidy's knees to the side and take a seat.

There's another couch and a number of chairs. Chris could have sat anywhere. But he chooses to sit there, with his larger leg touching Cassidy's leaner one.

Orange rolls his head, a slow swivel to look in Chris's direction.

Jericho considers and regards and then throws out all his garbage thoughts because no Demo God should be hung up on bullshit.

He's been on the fence with his agenda and now he's going to cross that line.

"You're good," Jericho admits, "in the ring. What you do, it's good. It's infuriating, but it's new and clever, and fuck, the fans love it, you stupid, lazy son of a bitch."

It's not pretty. It's word-vomit at best. And Chris would take it back if he could.

Or maybe not. 

Because the side of Orange's mouth tips up into a small smirk and he nudges his knee against Jericho's. "You say that to all the pretty ones, don't you?"

Orange's words.

The unexpected but much anticipated reply has Chris belting out a laugh and slapping the other wrestler on the shoulder. "Yeah," he admits, "I do. But I mean it." The mirth dies down and the two sit in relative silence. Then... "About Mimosa Mayhem-"

Words need to be said. It can't be avoided forever.

Time to rip it off, like a band-aid.

Orange Cassidy surprises Jericho by interrupting with a genuine plea of: "I just want to wrestle. Win or lose, good or bad, that's what I like. It's what I know."

And Jericho gets it. He really does. He regrets the stakes he placed on their upcoming match but he can't bring himself to take it back.

Ignoring health concerns is a big deal.

"I was going to say: _good luck_ ," Chris lied smoothly enough. After he'd said it, though, he realized with startling clarity that he _meant_ it. 

Orange Cassidy didn't respond to that. He didn't speak any words of appreciation, mutuality, or disdain. But he does shift his position and lean... towards Chris Jericho. Their arms touch; it's awkward contact, but it's firm and solid. Then Cassidy takes it a step further and further still... until his head is resting at an angle on the larger man's shoulder.

"You smell like the ring," comes Orange's voice after immeasurable beat of nothing but breathing.

Jericho doesn't know what to say or think. He feels like one of those pet owners who take their dog to the vet after it eats a shoe.

"Like blood, leather and concrete... and a little bit like feet." Orange is too honest and open, too exposed in ways that Chris isn't used to. Cassidy is drunk on feeling warm and comfortable and worn out from their earlier fight.

It's a vulnerability Chris isn't usually privy to. He doesn't hate it, but...

"You smell a little like ball sweat too." And there it goes. Over the top and insufferable. For a quiet guy, Orange can really drive someone up the wall.

Jericho scoffs and moves to get up. He stops when a set of arms wrap around him.

It's weird as hell. Chris should get up and go shower. He should call it a night. He should get his head together for All Out.

And he would do all these things.

But he doesn't want to.


	19. Mimosa Mayhem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the Mimosa Mayhem and then just went off the rails to write my own. Hope you enjoy it!

They don't talk about their time on the couch together, just like they don't say much at the table when Orange Cassidy is spooning Cheerios into his mouth and Chris hands him a napkin for the milk that drips down his chin.

They don't talk about gimmicks or Mimosa Mayhem or that Orange needs help taping his shoulder.

They don't talk much at all, but something does happen. Something strange and monumental. 

Orange leaves the condo much earlier than presumed necessary. Jericho doesn't ask why or where.

Le Champion makes time to grab his phone with the intent to throw out some hype and drop a few comments to the people who matter. His phone blares a number of messages that he has no interest in replying to, but three particular ones catch his eye.

He checks the one from Guevara to make sure he didn't do anything stupid before his big to-do with Hardy at All Out. But it's just a selfie with his cat. His cat Benji has a tiny hat and Sammy propped a little card up in front of him that reads: " _Squeeze That Orange_ ".

It's Hager's message next, and it's entirely emojis. Jericho is tempted to block the number when he sees: 🍆🍊🎂

He checks the third and it's familiar enough but not one he's seen more than a time or two. It's from Orange Cassidy himself. It doesn't have any pictures or emojis It's not clever by any means...

...except it kinda is.

The message is two words long, simply reading: _thumbs up._

Chris huffs something that might be an aborted laugh. He doesn't respond but he keeps the gesture on his mind while he preps for All Out, knowing that he needs to be ready before the Countdown and Buy In. 

He fits in a quick workout routine because he wants to look good on PayPerView.

From then on, it's a battle of nerves and professional calm. He mentally reviews the script but half of it slips his mind and he has no plan to read it over.

He doesn't think about the stakes.

He doesn't think about Orange Cassidy being vitamin deficient and hiding the issue.

He does, however, think about how tonight will be the pinnacle they've been driving towards for the past 14 weeks 

Jericho hasn't even had a sip of alcohol and there's already an Orange-induced buzz in his veins. He rides the pseudo high for as long as he can.

...

Later, the excitement is replaced by a mesh of anger and anxiety. Jericho is up the walls and ready to attack the next person that delivers bad news.

Because the Countdown is long over. The Buy In has concluded. All Out is being aired live on PayPerView. Matches are in the midst... and Orange Cassidy is nowhere to be seen.

No one has been able to find the Freshly Squeezed wrestler. Jericho has gone as far as to have Santana and Ortiz check around and Best Friends grudgingly jumped in on the search.

Time ticks away and matches start and end and it's fucking crunch time. 

Still no dice.

Jericho's been told that his rubber match is next and the everything is being set. He's so frustrated and downright pissed that he feels the hot burn of anger bone-deep.

He didn't plan for this. He's not sure what to do. Still, he is a professional, so he heads out when his entrance theme plays, and his spirits lift a little when he sees the enthusiastic fans and they loudly belt out the lyrics to Judas.

It's a trip that makes him feel empowered. And he owns that.

Then comes the familiar din of Cassidy's theme, and Jericho can't help looking around to see if he shows.

He _has_ to, doesn't he?

And he does show... but not really?

It's baffling, but how it happens, the Freshly Squeezed theme plays and out comes a blonde with sunglasses and a jacket.

But it's not Orange Cassidy. Not even close.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Jericho loses his cool and shouts. Because he doesn't understand or like what appears to be going on.

This blonde, he's tall, built like a refrigerator, his sunglasses style is all wrong and his jacket is black. 

And the real kicker, it's Jake fucking Hager, of all people.

Hager comes up the entry ramp and enters the ring with an awkward and poor imitation of Cassidy's roll beneath the ropes.

"What sort of joke is this?" Jericho is fired up to the point where the match isn't even on his mind anymore. 

There's two giant vats of Mimosa, and he hasn't even spared them a glance.

Hager doesn't verbally reply, and the weird silence just irks Chris more. It gets worse when Jake raises his hands and looks about ready to slide them into his pockets.

It's at that moment Jericho decides to just beat an answer out of his fellow member of the Inner Circle.

Hager's hands never meet the pockets of his jeans. The hand-raise has been a false pretense followed up by the first hit.

Jericho doesn't like this one bit, but he knocks an ice bucket off a table, picks said table up and launches it at Hager. It doesn't do any real damage but it did distract Jake long enough for Le Champion to close in for a series of punches and an attempt at forcing Jake towards a Mimosa pool.

It's a bizarre turn of events.

The crowd doesn't love it. They're chanting for Cassidy.

Hager's sunglasses don't stay on. 

Out from the tunnels, Guevara comes, slow and limping with a med-tech trailing behind and advising against his actions. He'd taken a brutal loss from Hardy and should be down for a while, but this is decidedly important. He ignores medical advisory and comes carrying a single card he hastily put together. He holds it up high and waves it around to garner attention. On the card, he's drawn emojis- which can only mean he's spending too much time with Jake.

Those emojis serve a purpose though, and Jericho finally understands.

Those emojis...

🍊🚑

Orange had an emergency.

Chris's heart drops to his stomach, cold and foreboding.

Cassidy has been fine that morning, or so he'd assumed.

Consumed by fear and anger, Jericho throws out a momentous punch that clocks Hager and drops him hard. In an attempt to save the themed match, Chris grabs hold of Hager and drags him towards the Mimosa pool.

Jake's head gets a dip before he's springing up and grabbing at Jericho.

Both wrestlers get up and start to brawl it out but completely freeze any and all movements when they hear an extra tinny version of Orange Cassidy's theme, this time with lyrics. 

_Whooooaah, Freshly Squeezed, Don't get your juices on me..._

The real Orange Cassidy comes from the audience entrance, holding his phone up and playing his own theme to announce himself.

It's legal too, because it had been established and announced that there were no disqualifications.

Orange Cassidy drops his phone, jacket, shirt, and sunglasses in one pile and gets into the ring with far more grace than Hager had.

He hadn't meant to be late, but he had an appointment that took longer than he'd anticipated.

All was right with the world now though. Hager ditched the ring, grabbed Guevara, and carried him off to receive proper medical care.

Jericho slings Cassidy into the ropes and Orange uses the momentum to his own advantage and lands a mean kick that throws Le Champion to the side.

The Demo God is up entirely too soon and Orange counters by hitting him with a bucket. 

The face-shot has Jericho's nose bleeding, but it's just what he needs to get himself going.

Cassidy's determination shows visibly on his face and in the way his lean musculature shifts under his skin, tight and coiled. He takes his hits and deals his counters and is slammed with code breakers.

They trade hits and Cassidy is dizzy against a turnbuckle.

Jericho grabs him and throws him over the ropes towards the Mimosa vat, and the match is almost over then and there- but Orange doesn't take a full dip. Only his feet and pantlegs manage to get soaked.

Orange gets up while Jericho catches his breath.

There's a moment where they stare each other down, and then there's collision.

Jericho gets the other wrestler with his Walls.

Again, it's almost over.

But Orange makes a last ditch effort, gets his hands on a cup of Mimosa and sloshes Jericho in the face with it.

Le Champion has to let go and wipe his eyes, meanwhile Orange Cassidy is on him relentlessly. Rounds him with a couple signature punches and gets the larger man off kilter enough that he ends up slipping and taking that big dip.

He drops like a stone and surfaces a moment later, shocked and a little mad and a lot sore... but even more amazed by the look on Orange Cassidy's face as he kneels and takes deep panting breaths, and gradually absorbs his victory.

The crowd is alive with horrendously loud shouts of " _Cassidy_ " and " _Freshly Squeezed_ ", and it nearly drowns out the sound of Chris Jericho saying "Congratulations."

Chris wants to expand on that, but not here, not while they're in the ring and he's currently wet and sticky.

He pulls himself up out of the Mimosa pool and approaches Orange with an outstretched hand- as if to shake.

It's the sportsman-like thing to do.

Hesitant, and for good reason, Orange accepts and slips his hand into Le Champion's.

Chris takes advantage, pulls him close, lifts and drops Orange into the Mimosa.

Orange Cassidy may have won, saved and advanced his career, but they would both walk away looking equally wet and ridiculous.

Jericho makes peace with the loss. Particularly when Orange gets out of the vat and walks away, having to use his hands to hold his pants up because the wet material is heavy enough that it keeps trying to slip down.

All in all, it's been good and it's been fun.

And Jericho is looking forward to another night on the couch with his Orange companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is so close to ending! It's a bittersweet victory!


	20. Freshly Squeezed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING. LAST CHAPTER. CONTAINS SOME MAN-ON-MAN LOVE. NO SEX, BUT THERE ARE EXPOSED PARTS AND SOME ORAL ATTENTION!

Black and blue and purple, and a sickly yellowy-green. The most disturbing rainbow painted over welted red flesh. This is the canvas Jericho's hands are trailing over.

It's not sweet or sensual or even erotic. There is a lot of exposed skin in their line of work. It's not anything to fuss over.

Except, maybe, this is a little intimate.

Orange Cassidy has a vast stretch of bruises and contusions, and the damage isn't just on the surface; it's muscle-deep and sore enough that Cassidy let off a verbal complaint.

It's been a while since their Mimosa Mayhem Match at All Out and their feud has come to rest save for some in-ring banter where permitted. Their lives and careers are busy and Chris isn't even sure who Cassidy fought to get himself pounded to this extent.

They have a system that has been working, so Jericho doesn't ask and Orange doesn't tell. 

But when Orange had tried to get comfortable on the couch and ended up stiff and clenching his teeth, it was clear that something hurt. 

Not forthcoming with details, Chris had taken it upon himself to grab and pull Orange's shirt up and over his head. The newly exposed bruises had the Demo God as mad as he was uneasy.

"How bad?" he asked as he began lining his hands up with bruises and making guesses on how they got there. His hands seem to move on their own accord and what starts as a light touch turns into a firm massage.

It took Orange Cassidy's breath at first but he soon relaxed and let Chris work him over. The calm deep breath and occasional groan signal that the larger wrestler is doing something right.

The allowed contact, so casual and physical without any malice or intent, it's a testament to how they've adjusted to one another over an expansion of time that seems just as long as it does short.

Jericho remembers how Orange debuted by crashing the promo vid. It had been infuriating at the time but in hindsight it's a little funny.

It's been one helluva journey since then, with juice showers and Bubbly-boarding, wild attacks and surprising debates. It's been war and hunger and hell.

And all that hate seems like a lifetime ago, especially now that Orange is laid out on his stomach stretched along the couch, and Jericho's hands are digging into inflamed and aggravated muscle. It's all hard and tight and bulging, and Chris focuses on working out the kinks... so he doesn't have to be entirely too aware that, to get a better angle, he'll have to straddle Cassidy.

He tells himself that it's fine, because they've been in similar positions in the ring any number of times. He hikes a leg over and rests his weight over the backs of Cassidy's thighs. It's a better position to be in, so he can work the massage better.

He considers calling in a professional masseuse or physical therapist.

He doesn't.

He continues his ministrations and makes a point to say: "Let me know when to stop."

But Orange never says to stop. He just shifts to get more comfortable, inhales sharply when something hurts, and stifles a snort of laughter when Chris's fingers lightly graze along his ribs.

It's not at all like it is in the ring. And Jericho should acknowledge that there is nothing professional about what they're doing. But he tucks that little nugget of information into the back of his mind and his hands go low enough to rest at the swell of Cassidy's ass.

It's not sexy. There is nothing in Jericho that desires Orange on a physical level. But he moulds his hands over the round masses and his thumbs meet in the middle. He can feel the crack outline through those acid washed jeans.

Orange doesn't protest. In fact, he's been so quiet he might have fallen asleep.

Curious, Chris tucks his fingers between the denim hem and Cassidy's skin. It's soft and warm and it's a reminder just how little time Le Champion has invested in personal vices... and perhaps it's a little more erotic than he thought.

Orange lifts his hips and wiggles, giving a little shimmy to help lower his pants.

Still not really sexy. It looks more silly than attractive and puts Chris in mind of an ultimate escape ploy.

It's not too late to stop. And Jericho should stop. He's going to.

He _was_ going to.

But he doesn't. 

The jeans and underwear come down until they rest just below Cassidy's glutes. 

Jericho studies the hind-cleavage like it's a puzzle with directions written in a foreign language.

This isn't a situation anyone could or should be prepared for.

Chris can't do it. It's too much right now and he's too sober for this weird shit. He's about to get up and go take a shower when Orange Cassidy wriggles free from the straddle and rolls so he's laying on his back and facing Jericho.

Orange's cheeks are flushed a healthy pink and his eyelids rest at half-mast. He carefully scoots down so that he rests more appropriately between the larger man's legs.

It's not a hot image that gets Jericho's gears going. He doesn't want to plow into that. But, seeing Orange breathy and a little needy does something for him. There's a warmth that forms in Chris's belly and pools low, and _maybe_ it's a bit of a turn on.

But it's nothing they have to act on. There's still time to cool things off.

And then Orange has to open his mouth and ruin everything. "You're such a prude. I'd have hopped on that dick weeks ago."

Jericho isn't a prude. He's a party guy. He's just not used to hovering over another man while chubbing in his pants. 

Orange is lazy by nature and adaptation, but he knows when effort is called for. With s grunt of exaggerated exasperation, Orange climbs out from under the other wrestler, drops to kneel on the floor, and lets his hands make quick work of Jericho's pants.

Jericho's on the fence, tempted to punch the slighter man for being so forward. That thought and temptation is significantly less prominent when he feels warm breath over freshly exposed skin and Cassidy's nose bumps along his shaft while his too-pink lips touch near the vein.

It's a teasing sensation, and Chris doesn't like to be teased. He fists a hand in Orange Cassidy's hair but doesn't force anything or guide him to change the pace.

Orange's hands get in on the action, one resting on Jericho's leg while the other encircles his manhood. He pumps the length too slow and breathes hotly against the head.

Just when Chris is getting fed up with waiting, warm wet heat encases him and it's raw and instinctive when he shoves Orange's head down and bucks into his throat.

Orange convulses momentarily and hits Jericho with a punishing slap wherever his hand could reach without detracting from his current work.

Chris tastes like he smells. Dirty and musty and comfortable. 

The weight against Orange's tongue is heavy and the scrape of dick along his throat isn't pleasant, but he knows what he's doing. He slobbers and swallows and sucks, hollows his cheeks and bobs his head while his hand that isn't being used for support goes in for a handful of jewels.

The sac hangs warm and the skin is pleasantly textured. It's entertaining to hold, feel, squeeze... Better than any stress ball, especially when it draws low noises from the man that towers over him.

Orange doesn't mind splitting his focus but he does wish he'd thought to wear his knee pads. The position isn't doing his legs any favors.

 _It's incredible_ , Jericho thinks, and he stops his brain there because he doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to care that this clearly isn't Cassidy's first slob-job. He just wants to take this for what it is.

Whatever that may be.

Jericho exercises restraint and doesn't go to town skull-fucking the Freshly Squeezed wrestler. He wants this to last. And maybe happen again some time.

He does wonder if he's supposed to return the favor. He doesn't really want to. He's not that kind of guy. Then again, this is new territory. He never thought he'd be in a position to get head from a fellow AEW talent.

Orange is good at what he does. There's no scrape of teeth and there's enough pressure and variance to keep it good and interesting. Just when it doesn't seem like it can get any better, Cassidy pulls away and coughs a little, lifts his chin and looks up...

The blonde's eyes are wide, wet and glassy, warm and smooth as molasses, face flushed, nose running and jaw dripping with saliva and precome. His disheveled look is nothing shy of pornstar beautiful.

And Chris wants him to gag again, choke and swallow around his engorged blood-filled cock. It's starting to become a fantasy. But there's that tight feeling tugging at his insides, meaning he's going to erupt soon, and he wants to explode on Orange Cassidy.

He doesn't even consider whether or not that's okay. It's not something they've talked about. It's not something that's ever crossed his mind. But it's all he wants as he grabs hold of himself and jacks himself to completion. Thick hot ropes of cum catch across Orange's face, painting a milky stripe over flushed skin.

Jericho takes a moment to catch his breath and enjoy post orgasmic bliss while Orange wipes his face off with his own previously discarded shirt. It is only when Orange is slow and stiff at getting up off the floor that Chris feels a little guilty. 

He's not sure where to go from here. Does he say a thank you? Is he expected to reciprocate? 

Cassidy drops lazily beside Chris on the couch, leans into the cushions and closes his eyes. He looks positively spent, exhausted.

Again, Jericho reminds himself that Orange isn't someone he's interested in. The physical attraction just isn't there. And yet... when he reaches over and pets a hand through the smaller man's sweaty hair and Orange breathes a sigh of contentment, he sorta gets the appeal.

Jericho sits up enough to fix his pants and considers doing the same for Orange. The other man's jeans are still around his thighs and his ass is bare against the couch.

There's a question of hygiene and morale. And maybe ethics? 

Jericho sets all those aside and lets Cassidy take a nap.

He'll have to invite the Inner Circle over later and see who sits there. It'll be funny. And if there's one thing Orange Cassidy has done for Jericho (apart from giving him head) it's remind him to appreciate a little humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I have no idea what I've just done. I think I scarred myself a little. Didn't write an actual sex scene because I can't imagine Chris Jericho being into it.
> 
> Now, off to start writing some Jake x Sammy. Because it needs done!


End file.
